Blurred to Indigo
by evvabum
Summary: Hallucinations fill Harry's unreal reality, and his life spins before his eyes. But it's for her. It's always for her.
1. Pen of Night Writes with a Heavy Hand

**Blurred to Indigo**

**Chapter One**

**The Pen of Night Writes with a Heavy Hand**

_Reality is relative to each person, simply depending on what one allows himself to believe is true._

She glows. In the pitch dark, her skin glows, mesmerizing him. She glows white and silver, abruptly interrupted by indigo black. She is ghostly; he'd turn on the light, but he prefers ethereal whiteness to sickly yellow. When the lights are out, she glows with innocent pallor and beautiful curves like Indian ink, images marking his minds like calligraphy. When the lights burn bright—too bright—her skin seems lucent and jaundiced, glowing with a different endearment. She looks like liquid gold in the ways she moves and sickly timid with the stains of ink on her yellowed pallor.

He's losing her, he realizes. His hand grips desperately to hers, but she just shoos it away and shares another sip from the plastic cup, liquid burning her throat and lifting her mind from mortal worries, towards intangible bliss.

He stares intently into her eyes, absorbed by her deep chocolate orbs, and eventually they're the only thing he can see against a backdrop of white. The image of her cascading locks disappears, her familiar bone structure gone along with the curve of her hip. Intense, clear brown stands against dark blue, and he's taken back; he's scared; he feels insane. Suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath, the piercing aroma of alcohol ignites his body and pulls him back to reality—or is it reality? He can't be sure.

He starts to see features seeping into place around the pair of eyes still mesmerizing him, but there's something different. The hair isn't of the same silky quality; unfamiliar course waves start to frame a new set of cheekbones. The same eyes still penetrate his gaze, but his mind is sent into a frenzy as he realizes she is not the same girl he was just gazing upon.

There is no such thing as reality.


	2. A Different Kind of Pillow Talk

**Chapter Two**

**A Different Kind of Pillow Talk**

They scream in their sleep—him from the fear of never waking up, and her from the fear of waking to a new day.

Harry eyelids flutter through his deep slumber, beads of sweat adorning his forehead as his mind is tossed back and forth between the realms of reality. The coincidental dreams had begun to haunt him over the months, and he found himself letting them take over his life.

The constant fear for her life leaves him cold and breathless; he can't imagine how terrifying it must be in her situation, to have death's icy fingers brush against the back of your neck.

He cries more than she does, and it's a foreign feeling because he's supposed to be stoic—she's not strong in any sense of the word. She's as weak as a person can be without medical death. But she'll attest the fact that while she's legally alive, she hasn't lived in years. Each breath feels forced and stolen because it probably is.

She realizes the situation is driving him insane, and it seems that he harbors more hope for her survival than she does herself. She begs for him to let her go, and it's like a morning ritual. She wakes him up telling him today's the day they must part; it's time to say goodbye. But it never really is.

Their relationship is like their numerous shared addictions, something they both benefit temporarily from, and once they break away from this world they've created for themselves they'll be lost in the sea of society. They cling to each other more for means of survival than for actual adoration.

But sometimes she slips into bed beside him and shushes him, just resting her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat—then sometimes they fall in love. It's never for more than a moment, and it's only been mentioned once. She slapped him, cried, and ran away to take a shower. When she returned, they ignored the feelings and just lay together.

"I don't want your last memory of me to be my face gaunt, gasping for air, deteriorating, not remembering who I am. It'll be too hard for both of us, and in the end it will only hurt you more to see me dying," she argues, pressing her small palm against his calloused one.

"If you think that's going to happen, you've already lost your mind," he muses with morbid sarcasm, and though they both know the innocent nature of his jokes, his humor isn't nearly as funny anymore.

She doesn't answer him, but simply rests her case and refuses to carry the debate further. They talk of it too often nowadays, and it feels like by the time they agree on the right time to say goodbye she'll be long gone anyway.

Before Harry realizes, he's sucked into her green eyes again, sending him into a trance. It's almost as if he can smell the sweet scent of drugs in the air; they've both agreed to stop but continue to sneak a joint or two behind the other's back. A strange sense of nostalgia pangs his heart as her eyes suck him in further, but he's not sure why.

And when he blinks, she's gone.


	3. Insanity is Ruled by a Totalitarian Gov

**Chapter Three**

**Insanity is Ruled by a Totalitarian Government of the Mind**

Harry holds this strange mentality that if he blinks again, again, again, suddenly what he sees will make sense to him. In his mind he swears the last time he opened his eyes Corinne's eyes had a dull sheen in the dim morning light. He thinks he remembered her right next to him, fingers curling around the edges of the comforter in a childlike way of soothing herself.

But then again, since when can memory be trusted?

If you're told enough times that something never happened you can find yourself beginning to believe it. He's driving himself insane with worry anyway; he wouldn't be surprised if she had died already and he was just suffering from the aftereffects.

Suddenly there's a swinging noise as the front door is opened and slammed, and relief spreads through Harry's body as he thinks perhaps he just smoked too much weed today or dozed off while Corinne made her way out of the house.

"Haz?" he hears her yell, though her voice sounds strange—it's gained a rasp and it sounds as if she's got a newfound cold.

He doesn't answer, instead letting her make her way into their bedroom where she knows he'll be. Her head's lowered, picking something off the hem of her shirt as she walks into the room, and he notices for a moment that her hair's changed again to a wavy texture, hued with reddish brown. He wonders what she's doing it to style her hair differently, or if the dingy fluorescent lights are playing tricks on his eyes.

When she finally raises her head to look at him, he almost jumps in shock at what he sees. He doesn't recognize her; the person he sees in front of him is someone he feels he's only encountered in his imagination.

He wonders who she is or whether or not he's supposed to know her. He'd think it was one of Corinne's friends, perhaps one of the sisters she always whined about, but he doubts that she'd ever allow them past the emotional wall she had constructed so carefully to keep everyone distant.

Oblivious of the confusion on his face, she makes her way over to the bed and kisses him, smiling innocently. He's surprised he lets her do it, and is even more astounded when he finds that the act feels quite normal. She has the same green eyes as Corinne, but there is no other resemblance, and he can't imagine that the two know each other when he notices what she's wearing.

Her body is cinched in a striking jewel-tone pink satin blouse, tucked into a professional pencil skirt. He's sure this mystery girl can't know Corinne as soon as her prissy designer-printed handbag comes into sight. If Corinne caught sight of this girl, she'd scoff in disapproval and take proud strides past in one of her many cheap cotton summer dresses.

How is it that Harry feels so comfortable around this girl when he doesn't even recognize her? She kicks off her heels carelessly and climbs into bed next to him, still unaware of the fact that he has no idea who she is.

And with all of his uncertainty, he's unable to bring himself to asking what the hell she's doing there, simply because she makes him feel more at home in mere seconds than Corinne ever seemed to.

He turns his head towards the bedside table to a photo frame where he expects to see a picture of him and Corinne framed with decorations from the dollar store. He begins to tune out what the girl is saying next to him as she rambles on about something concerning her inconsiderate boss.

He can't help but feel as if he's going crazy as he finds a picture of him and the mystery girl in an elegantly engraved frame—the polar opposite of the chipped one he's used to seeing—and he reads the words written into the metal edges carefully.

"Harry and Brooke."

Insanity begins where memory leaves off.


End file.
